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EVENTS

Evelyn Ferland’s Valentine’s Day gift came two days early this year after the 70-year-old Newington resident woke up Thursday morning to find a giant heart shape had frozen into her backyard pond.

Ferland, along with eight other women in her Bible study group, all fell witness to the spectacle Thursday and have each deemed it to be “a Valentine’s Day miracle.”

I love the “fell witness to the spectacle” rather than “saw”, and “deemed it to be” instead of “called it”. Gotta have the right miracle language, after all.

Even Denise Williams-Labbe, 47, said she believes the formation of the heart shape was a gift from God.

“God made it and gave it to her (Ferland) as a Valentine,” she added.

Because Ferland’s home is located near the Pease Tradeport and planes carrying troops fly over the property all the time, Labbe said she believes the godly creation could be a special gift for the troops as well.

Ah, well, there you have it. It all makes sense now.

When Evelyn Ferland glanced out of her windowThe ice on her pond looked a little bit odd;In perfect proportions, a heart on the surface—A valentine message, delivered by God.

Eight women, who gather to study the BibleAt Evelyn’s cabin each Thursday, agreed:The image was clearly a Valentine Miracle;God was the one who accomplished the deed.

The valentine sits where the planes fly above it,Where troops from the tradeport could see it below.One woman believes that’s the point of the message—So soldiers can see that God loves them, you know.

How sweet, that this kind and omnipotent beingShould carve such a message, a beautiful heartTo lighten the spirits of soldiers returningFrom war-zones, where God must refuse to take part.

I picture a soldier, returning from dutyWho looks out to see a heart, carved in the ice—He scratches the stump where his leg once continued,And knows that God loves him, and murmurs “how nice.”

Omnipotent God could bring peace to the people,Iraq, or Afghanistan—far, far, beyond—But God, it appears, is too busy to do it;He’s carving a miracle heart on a pond.

On the newsstand at the stationThere it was, a publicationWith a bold prevaricationWhere it asked “Was Darwin Wrong?”Darwin stands among the giantsOf our modern view of scienceSo, in answer and defianceI’m replying in this song:

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!

Variation in the featuresOf all sorts of nature’s creaturesWas a sign of God, for preachers,But you thought you’d take a lookIt’s descent and not creation That explains the populationSo we start the celebrationFor the guy who wrote the book

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!

From the South Pacific IslandsTo the bonny Scottish Highlands,In the oceans and the dry landsWe can see the evidence.From diversity most splendid,We infer that we descended;It was you who comprehendedAnd your impact was immense!

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!

Well, the theory you createdHas, for decades, been updated,But it shouldn’t be unstatedThat it all began with youThat’s the way with any theoryThough detractors may grow wearyAs they try to make folks leeryBut they can’t deny it’s true

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!

Yeah, it’s still a day early here in Cuttletown, but it’s been Darwin Day in Darwin for over 7 hours now!

I think the song is self-explanatory. If anyone finds a tune for it, let me know; I have one, but not one I am happy with.

Disclaimer: No, I am not in love with ScienceWoman. I don’t even know her; I have never met her. I have never seen anything but her muddy boots. But something about those muddy boots triggered a Valentines Day verse-if her husband wants to steal it, he is more than welcome.

Here’s a valentine poem for an uncommon womanAn uncommon verse is the method that suitsIt won’t be an ode to some delicate flower;My love is a woman with mud on her boots.

Her hair is pulled back in a practical fashionThe dirt from her glove leaves a smudge on her cheek;The sleeves of her sweatshirt rolled up to her elbow,She’s beauty itself–but she’ll never be chic.

She’s smarter than I am, which isn’t surprising,She’s comfortable both in the lab and the fieldGathering samples or sorting through data,Excited to see what the process will yield.

I’ll take muddy boots over heels in a heartbeat,The hand that I hold may have mud on its gloveThis Valentines Day, here’s my uncommon poemFor my uncommon woman, the one that I love.

Further disclaimer: I have nothing against heels. A very dear friend has a collection of over 400 pairs, mostly unworn and collected for their artistic merit. But for any who think a stiletto is necessarily sexier than work boots… it ain’t necessarily so.

“Everyone should find his own Darwin,” Mr. Milner says. “The man was so large. He was a zoologist, a botanist, an explorer, a travel writer, a philosopher, an abolitionist, a doting father, a radical intellectual revolutionary with an utterly conservative and blemish-free lifestyle. He revolutionized every field he touched, and he was trained in none of them.”

O.K., he was large. Granted, there are many Darwins to find. But until Mr. Milner came along, no one had ever found Darwin the Singing Comedian. There were not a lot of laughs in “On the Origin of Species,” and its author said that just the thought of public speaking made him sick to his stomach. He had such bad stage fright that he asked someone else to read his landmark paper to the Linnean Society.

Somehow, though, Mr. Milner has turned the shy naturalist into a suavely bemused performer doing patter songs about trilobites, garfish and tortoise shells. (You can see excerpts at nytimes.com/science.)

Y’know what’s fun? Putting yourself into the mindset of someone who writes that sort of letter. Imagining that every time you see someone whispering in someone else’s ear, they are talking about you. Imagining that a national press conference contains secret messages, if only you can decode them. Imagining that there is this vast conspiracy of competent government workers, running the world from behind the scenes, and you are the only one who sees the puppet masters at work. Imagining that the buildings you don’t go into don’t even have to be finished on the inside, since the outside is all you will see. Imagining that just outside of your line of sight, people are planning what will happen to you. Paranoid, yes, but delusions of paranoia go hand in hand with delusions of grandeur. How important you must be, to have discovered this plot. How important you must be, to have such a vast conspiracy attempting to fool you.

Y’know what’s not fun at all? Thinking that way all the time.

Dear sir–

I am writing this, in secret, with a pen dipped in my blood–There are mind-controlling substances in ink–To expose the vast conspiracy, existent since the flood,That controls the way the common people think.I have stumbled, inadvertently, upon the subtle plan,And I’m worried that my life may be in danger;It’s the greatest vast conspiracy in all the reign of Man,Which is why I’m writing you, a perfect stranger.When I tell my friends and family, they merely roll their eyes–They are clearly in the Legion of the Beast–And I’d never tell the Media-it doesn’t fit their lies–And the Military surely are policed.As soon as this is posted, I will change my hiding-place;I’ll find a way to read how you condemnAnd expose the Evil Legion; rip the Mask off of their Face!Unless… Of course!… Oh, Shit!… You’re one of Them!

I was trying to come up with something that sounded deep, but wasn’t. (More than usual, I mean.) So anyway, this is for those people who, for whatever reason, have a valentine who is easier to give a card to than to actually approach. Don’t look for any hidden meanings; the whole point is to really not mean a damned thing.

I write today of valentines, with velvet trim and laces,The sort we give to porcupines, instead of warm embraces;We blame such silly practices on love, or fate, or Cupid,But hugs for walking cactuses are nothing less than stupid!The concept was romanticized by Hallmark (for the money),But no one ever fantasized a quill-pig as a honey.We end up with our porcupines in some or other fashion,Then have to turn to valentines to substitute for passion;We need a card’s assistance to protect us from a puncture,When the need to keep a distance is required at this juncture.

Oh, and for all those hits I keep getting for people searching for valentines day poems, click the tag for “love”, and there are a few more on this site. If you have someone you think might like one of them, you are incredibly fortunate; they are not Hallmark.

Over there at the top right, just under the banner, there is now a little link to a CafePress store. This is no big fundraiser thingie (although it could be at some point), but I just like Michael McRae’s art so much that I wanted it on a mug. I knew CafePress could do that, and thought, what the heck, in case anybody else wants something, I’ll throw this thing together. It is not fancy–it is quite the opposite of fancy, in fact. I’ll probably put up some more stuff with the original cuttlefish logo, too, but that is not there yet.

If anyone has any special requests, just let me know. I bet against anyone wanting a cuttlefish thong, for instance. And right now, the artwork is just the beautiful cuttlefish, not the blog title or anything. Which makes it the perfect gift for a writer or poet, but you already knew that. The artwork is used with the generous permission of the artist.

Orac busts the snake-oil sellers on a regular basis, and it is always an entertaining and enlightening read (and has inspired morethanone Cuttlefish post). Today’s is a good one–once again, the weasels are out in force, creating a market by cultivating human insecurity. This time, the target is right there on your chest. Er, breast. Breasts. Anyway… I can hear their advertising jingle right now…

It’s new! It’s scientific! It’sThe latest way to grow your tits!Don’t like the way your sweater fits?Then just pick up the phone!Embarrassed by your tiny chest?Or want more bounce back in your breast?You simply want to look your best—And no, you’re not alone!

You say you want to up-sizeTo a new and bigger cup size?Get some bigger dogs, not pup-size?Send your money in today!Our CD-ROM will show youHow, hypnotically, to grow you—Just you wait; before you know, you’llHave some melons on display!

We’ll show you how to hypnotizeYourself into a bigger size;Develop right before your eyesInto a better you!We know it works; we asked some menTo concentrate on breasts, and thenThe method proved successful whenSome pieces of them grew!

You say you want to up-sizeTo a new and bigger cup size?Get some bigger dogs, not pup-size?Send your money in today!Our CD-ROM will show youHow, hypnotically, to grow you—Just you wait; before you know, you’llHave some melons on display!

You say you want to up-sizeTo a new and bigger cup size?Get some bigger dogs, not pup-size?Send your money in today!Our CD-ROM will show youHow, hypnotically, to grow you—Just you wait; before you know, you’llHave some melons on display!

There’s a piper who plays in the center of SofiaSongs from his country’s remarkable pastI sat on the curb and I listened, transported,So willingly under the spell that he cast

I’d been told that the man was a national treasure,A world-class performer who played in the parkHe’s there every day, or at least very nearly,Performing his magic until it grows dark.

He approached me and asked, though he barely spoke English,“What would you hear today? Happy? Or sad?”“Sad”, I replied; “I am leaving tomorrow;I can’t hear a happy song, feeling so bad.”

He played me a song of a terrible storyAn Ottoman soldier had chosen a bride—A Bulgarian beauty, who so loved her countryShe threw herself into the ocean and died

His pipes were enchanted, they shouted, they whispered,At turns calm and peaceful, then wonderfully wildThey barked like a dog, and then sang like a lover,They wailed like a mother who’s just lost a child.

When he finished, we talked for another half hour;I put all the money I had in his caseThen, late for a meeting, I turned and departed,Appreciative teardrops still wet on my face

If ever you find yourself visiting Sofia—Business, for pleasure, or just as a lark—I love the whole city, but best in my memory,The national treasure who plays in the park